


sword and shield

by maesilju



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Beshelar POV, Gen, Minor Violence, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8817403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maesilju/pseuds/maesilju
Summary: Beshelar's first impression of Edrehasivar, seventh of his name, had been... well - not much of one at all. The youth seated in the Tortoise Room was nothing like Varanechibel - not in presence, nor in stature - indeed, he had little family resemblance to the late emperor save the winter-grey of his eyes, and the long, slender fingers twisting nervously together in his lap. In which Beshelar realises that first impressions don't actually count for much - and that there is more to Edrehasivar than meets the eye.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elemental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elemental/gifts).



Beshelar's first impression of Edrehasivar, seventh of his name, had been... _well_ \- not much of one at all. The youth seated in the Tortoise Room was nothing like Varanechibel - not in presence, nor in stature - indeed, he had little family resemblance to the late emperor save the winter-grey of his eyes, and the long, slender fingers twisting nervously together in his lap. He looked more like a servant than an emperor, clad in dusty, faded, mourning black, hunched over nervously, as if trying to blend into the severe colours of the Tortoise Room. Beshelar had not known what to make of his new emperor, and judging from the startled-deer look Beshelar had received in response, it seemed as if the sentiment was mutual.

Beshelar had heard rumours - petty, malicious murmurs, most of them - of how much Varanechibel had despised his Barizheise empress, foistered upon him by the Corazhas, and how, subsequently, the Empress Chenelo had died, forgotten and alone, in cold exile, (and 'twould have been better if her son had died along with her, too); of how unnatural the last Archduke looked, all snaggle-teeth, scales and bulging eyes, with a _tail_ to boot, a blot upon Varanechibel's household - and a joke among courtiers - for as long as he lived. Court gossip would have anyone believe Varanechibel's last - and least - son was a monster, responsible for killing his own mother ('thou knowest all too well what these _goblins_ are capable of'), but Edrehasivar has been none of those things. Awkward, certainly, ill at ease in his own skin and painfully _ignorant_ of basic court etiquette, but not a _monster_. Beshelar has killed plenty of those, in his time, and Edrehasivar is not one of them. He cannot imagine the gangly youth raising his hand against anyone -- the _boy_ (not emperor, not yet, but soon) is too anxious and too withdrawn for that.

Edrehasivar makes a soft, pained noise in his sleep, stirring restlessly but not quite waking, and Beshelar glances towards the bed. It's hidden by lavish cat-patterned hangings that give an illusion of privacy, shifting uneasily at his post. It is his duty to guard the emperor, true, but 'tis against threats to his life, not bad dreams. Edrehasivar sobs again, and the sound is utterly _lost_. Beshelar takes a half-step towards the bed, but hesitates, wrestling with indecision. It is Cala Athmaza who moves first, sweeping forward decisively, and tugging the drapes aside.

"Serenity," his voice is low and soothing, as if calming a frightened child, and Beshelar turns his gaze away, feeling something uneasily like guilt. Emperors must never show weakness, even away from the eyes of the court. This is ... strange. Unfamiliar. A breach of etiquette, and Beshelar has no idea how to respond.

 _The late Archduke would never have been like this, Beshelar thinks_ , and then feels like traitor for even daring to let his thoughts take on a bitter slant. _Thou'rt a fool and a coward_ , he thinks, bitterly, and he leaves to the outer chambers. Edrehasivar has no need of him, not like this; Cala's reassurances should be sufficient. Cala's presence is calming in a way that Beshelar could never manage - it seems to be something all mazei are imbued with, and it sets Beshelar's teeth on edge, the way his new liege already seems to be more at ease with one of his first nohecharis than the other, for all that it's been barely a day.

No matter. It is not a question of _like_ , or even of approval. He is his emperor's sword and shield, and he will do his duty. Even if his emperor _is_ odd, and doesn't behave as he ought to.

Beshelar rolls his shoulders, his armour clinking in the quiet. The gas lamps slink low, painting the rooms in a soft, subdued shade of green. Edrehasivar's sobbing has stopped, at least; so there's that. He stands to attention, ears pricked, and keeps his watch.

 

* * *

 

 

"His Serenity is going to the - _what_?" Beshelar hisses through his teeth, ears flattening in unpleasant surprise.

He's the only one behaving thus, he realises, with a sting of annoyance. Mer Aisava looks only faintly harried, a faint crease between his brows, and Cala is as rumpled as always, but otherwise betrays no concern -- concern that _he_ should rightly have, as the emperor's nohecharei.

"Have you considered," Beshelar grits his teeth, "just how dangerous it could be? His Serenity is going to be surrounded by _so many people_ , and we could very well lose him before the coronation proper -- "

"His Serenity has been informed of the dangers," Mer Aisava cuts him off, firmly. "He insists. He feels it would be... remiss of him not to attend the funeral, and -"

"The funerals of commoners - of people he doesn't even _know_!" Beshelar snaps, forgetting propriety. Cala is staring; he ignores him, and jabs a finger at Mer Aisava. "Hardly worth risking his life for, and - and _unheard_ of besides!"

"Beshelar," Cala lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, but there's a hint of steel to his tone that makes Beshelar start, as though he's just been rebuked. "Calm. 'Twill be only a few hours, and I _will_ be vigilant. No harm will come to his Serenity, an you and I do our duty."

 _If only it were that easy_. Emperors did not do - whatever _this_ was. Beshelar's temples have begun to ache already. Edrehasivar, he realises, is going to be more _trouble_ than he thought.

Whatever his protests, he's outnumbered, and Beshelar knows a losing battle when he sees one. "As his Serenity wishes," he mutters, and storms off to prepare.

 

* * *

 

 

The gods are merciful. No one tries to kill Edrehasivar -- yet, anyway, considering his reign hasn't even begun, and the crowd keeps a respectful distance, no doubt awed by the imperial white. Still, Beshelar is glad when Edrehasivar allows himself to bundled off into the carriage and back to the relative safety of the Alcethmeret. Cala slants him a 'didst-I-not-tell-thee' look over the top of Edrehasivar's head, and Beshelar resigns himself to silent glowering. Edrehasivar shifts uncomfortably in the heavy finery he's clad in, and turns down Cala's attempts at conversation. He stares off into the distance, worrying at his lip with his teeth, and Beshelar can almost _smell_ the nervous tension roiling off him. Beshelar searches for the appropriate words to say, but nothing the guards have taught him seems useful in _this_ context, and all that comes to mind are empty platitudes that would offer scarce comfort. _No_ , he thinks, setting his jaw and resolutely ignoring the looks Cala keeps shooting him as an unspoken plea to simply _say something_. Sympathy is dangerous -- and foolish. He is Edrehasivar's sworn guard, and not a friend. Never a friend. The emperor's burden is his alone to carry, even if it is heavy and fraught with difficulties.

 

* * *

 

 

Beshelar's almost glad when Edrehasivar's second nohecharei arrives, because then he and Cala can actually get some blessed _sleep_. Beshelar's gotten by on worse, but lack of sleep is making him cranky, and Edrehasivar continues to frustrate and astound in equal measure. He knows almost nothing of how the court operates, and his uncertainty - and tongue-tiedness - around Chavar does not help. It marks him out to the waiting vultures as a target, an abandoned kit ripe for the taking, to have his throat ripped out and eaten whole. Edrehasivar simply does not _command_ , not in the way his father did, and the court knows it -- Beshelar can read the scorn and hunger in their eyes as they measure up Edrehasivar and find him lacking. It is not the sort of thing Beshelar - nor Cala - can aid with. He looms and scowls as best as he can behind Edrehasivar, but he fears it is too little to be of much use. He _is_ proud to have proven his worth in blood, and to be his emperor's first nohecharei, and he _will_ defend Edrehasivar to the death, but Beshelar is out of his depth where intrigue is concerned; he can only hope Mer Aisava counsels Edrehasivar well.

 

* * *

 

 

As it is, the ugly undercurrents of court gossip continues to swirl around Edrehasivar. Beshelar catches snatches of it, murmured in the kitchens and along the servants' corridors, but it rapidly fades to nothing when the rumour-mongers catch sight of his thunderous face -- they know better than to speak of such things to _him_ , certainly. Well, _most_ of them, at least.

"How goes standing guard over a half-breed? Tell me, Beshelar, is he as foul as they say he truly is?" The voice is familiar, but the sneer in it is not. 

The conversation in the communal kitchens (for servants, guards, pneumatics operators and couriers only, never nobles) falters, and in that moment, Beshelar feels dozens of eyes on him. Not all of them are friendly - they like to pretend that they're _different_ from the nobility, but in truth they're just as bad -- the politics of the court are _everywhere_ , and even here there is no escape from them.

Beshelar tenses, ears flattening. He tilts his head up to glare. He knows the elf in question well - a little _too_ well, in truth. A courier of a minor house, he had once been a paramour of Beshelar's, when Beshelar had been a little more hot-blooded and wet behind the ears, and those days are well behind him now. Beshelar curls his lip, scorn layering his words. "Thou _dares_ ," he snarls, and the courier laughs. He's weaving a little - too much metheglin, Beshelar will warrant, and he leans forward, mouth curving up in a mocking smile, "Thou'rt on the wrong side, Beshelar. The half-breed will be dead within a month --"

Later, Beshelar will blame it on the mulled wine, but he's had far too little to be actually drunk. His fist moves before his mind can catch up, and the next moment the courier is flat on his back, groaning in pain, nose crooked and blood trickling from his face.

Beshelar grabs him by the collar, heaving him unceremoniously onto his feet. "Cur," he growls, "shut thy mouth and _never_ \- _never_ speak so of thy emperor again, or I swear by Ulis himself I'll have thee drawn and quartered. Now get out."

Fighting off-duty is not done, and never in the communal kitchens; Beshelar suspects he will pay for this in weeks to come, in various petty slights and revenges, but he finds that for now, he does not _care_. His knuckles burn, but 'tis a satisfying ache. He flexes his fingers experimentally, savouring the sting, and finishes the last of his mulled wine -- in peace, this time, for the rest are careful to leave him well alone.

It is Cala who catches wind of the altercation, and who seeks Beshelar out afterwards, before they go on shift for the night.

"Tell me you didn't," he says, as a preamble, and Beshelar's brows draw together. _Damn Cala_ , he thinks. Nothing gets by him.

"He deserved it, the bastard," Beshelar snaps, "and I'd have duelled him if he wasn't so drunk. He should be grateful I did him a favour and didn't kill him."

Cala sighs, and catches Beshelar's hand before he can draw away. His knuckles are grazed, but 'tis nothing compared to the fool who'd dared to cross him. Cala's fingers are slender and cool around his, and Beshelar blinks, feeling oddly wrong-footed. Cala and he are not friends - not truly - and he knows not what to make of this.

"What are you doing?"

"That temper of yours," Cala murmurs, sounding inexplicably fond, and then says something else in a liquid and rolling tongue that sends a brief spark of _something_ across Beshelar's skin. There's a metallic tang in the air that smells like thunder, and his skin knits back over itself; in bare moments, the injury is gone.

Beshelar stares. He's heard tales of what the mazei can do (once, he'd even dreamed of being one himself, but those were the idle daydreams of a child) but he's never actually _seen_ magic in practice, much less had it done on himself.

"I..." his voice is oddly hoarse, and he turns his hand over, wondering.

"A thank you would be sufficient," Cala says, smiling. His eyes have crinkled at the corners behind his glasses -  it's an expression that Beshelar sees often enough, but it's hardly ever directed at _him_.

"Thank you. For - ah. Healing my hand, but it wasn't necessary -"

"I wanted to," Cala nods, and lets go of his hand. "There, all better. And -- try not to get into anymore altercations. At least, not in public."

"Is that a lecture on proper behaviour? From you, Cala Athmaza?" And after all those times he'd tried to get Cala to change into new robes, too.

"How the tables have turned," Cala hums, sounding amused. "You know, you should let him know that you  _do_ care, Beshelar."

"I doubt that it matters," Beshelar says, stiffly. "He _is_ the emperor. We cannot be his friends."

He'd left _that_ particular conversation for Cala to have with Edrehasivar - a tad unfair, in hindsight, but words have never been Beshelar's strong suit, and besides, he _knows_ Edrehasivar isn't as comfortable with him as he is with Cala.

Cala's expression shutters at the abrupt reminder, and he sighs. "I know. But it wouldn't hurt."

"He cares not for me," Beshelar says, the words heavy and awkward on his tongue. "As you well know." He tries not to feel the hurt; it's something he'd pushed to the back of his mind a long time ago (and yet, it still stings, knowing that his emperor does not fully trust him as he does Cala.)

Cala exhales, a startled breath. "He _does_ , Beshelar. He cares for you, and his edocharei and his household --"

"Does he?" Beshelar's smile is brittle. "He'll speak to Csevet, and to you, but rarely to me."

"I do not lie," Cala says, firm, "and I would never lie. Not to thee. Not ever. His Serenity _does_ care, but thou art --"

He makes a vague gesture that means absolutely nothing to Beshelar. "Prickly. Sometimes. Well. Most of the time, actually. It's -- intimidating. For him. I think."

Beshelar scowls. It's his _job_ to be intimidating, and while it's true that he may not have Cala's affable demeanour, it's ridiculous to consider his emperor being _afraid_ of him.

"Just. Try to smile more, perhaps?"

Beshelar considers. He thinks about how Edrehasivar clings to the security of the Alcethmeret, and how kind he always is to people, no matter their rank or status. How he's so free with his time with the endless stream of petitioners from all four corners of the empire, even when other matters demand his attention. Edrehasivar is a lone figure, always, distanced from the court, and something in Beshelar's chest clenches at the thought.

"I'll try." Beshelar promises, and Cala claps him on the shoulder.

"Good man."

 

* * *

 

 

Beshelar _does_ try. Not in words - that is more Cala's way, not his, but through actions. He knows the court like the back of his hand, and he uses that knowledge to his advantage, leading Edrehasivar through less-frequented passageways to avoid the hungry gazes of the court, or to stave off Dach'osmer Tethimar's less-than-polite demands regarding the Archduchess' Vedero's hand. When Edrehasivar is tired, especially in winter, he takes the shortest routes back to the Alcethmeret, where - thanks to the ever-attentive edocharei - there's always a fire roaring cheerily in the grate, and a pot of piping hot camomile tea waiting to be drunk before the emperor retires to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Beshelar has never liked Setheris Nelar. He cannot exactly place his finger on _why_ , but something about the man _chafes_. It could be any number of things. Setheris Nelar is not likeable. He has a manner of looking down his nose at people; he sneers constantly; and worst of all, perhaps, is the way that Edrehasivar shrinks from him whenever he enters the same room. It is rare for Setheris Nelar to appear, these days; Csevet's machinations have worked well enough to ensure that Setheris is kept far from the emperor, but on those occasions that their paths cross, it is all Beshelar can do to stop himself from physically evicting the emperor's cousin from the premises, royal relation or no.

Edrehasivar is _afraid_ of Setheris, Beshelar realises, belatedly and with some frustration. There are few things he has seen Edrehasivar shy openly away from, and Edrehasivar has faced down Csoru Zhasanai in a fit of pique and survived a coup - Setheris Nelar pales in comparison. There are some things Edrehasivar will speak of to Csevet, and perhaps Cala, but not to him at all; and how can he best protect his emperor when Edrehasivar will not share his concerns? The question grates at him, until one day it quite simply ceases to be a question anymore, because the horrifying truth has been made clear.

He cannot tear his eyes away from the lattice of silver-white scars on Edrehasivar's arm. The sight of it sends a red-hot sear of anger through Beshelar, and he does not realise he is shouting until Cala comes to stand beside him. "He should be flogged, the wretch," Beshelar snarls, low and vicious, because Setheris Nelar had no _right_. None at all, to raise his hand against a _boy_ , and least of all Edrehasivar, who does not deserve such violence. He is ready - so _ready_ \- to hunt down Setheris and make him _pay_ , but Edrehasivar will have none of it. He exiles Setheris instead; something that Beshelar cannot understand, but he holds his peace, because this is between Edrehasivar and Setheris, and because this is what his emperor wills. It does not, however, stop him from dogging Setheris through the imperial court when the wretch leaves. Whenver Setheris turns back, even for a moment, there Beshelar is, glaring murder through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, and he is spitefully pleased to see the man pale and hurry onwards, as if he cannot depart soon enough. _Good riddance_ , Beshelar thinks, as the carriage leaves, and he spits in the trail of dust it leaves behind, glad to finally see the back of Setheris at last.

 

* * *

 

 

In general, the emperor's birthday is a festive occasion; in Edrehasivar's case, it makes for an awkward one. As is customary, there is a multitude of gifts for the emperor - an airship model from the crew of the _Wisdom of the Choharo_ , clothes, each garment more lavish than the last, and more jewels than Edrehasivar probably knows what to do with. The gift that _does_ catch Beshelar's eye, however, is an ornately carved chess set, the chess pieces made of ivory and onyx, and the board itself, cut from ebony-veined marble, hewn out from one of the great quarries in the south. It sits on the mantelpiece - more for decoration than for actual use, and he's caught Edrehasivar eyeing it contemplatively now and then. He doesn't suppose Edrehasivar actually knows how to play chess, and _that_ is something Beshelar can actually help with. And if that distracts Edrehasivar from his troubles, even if momentarily, well. He'll do it.

"If I may presume," Beshelar says, during a suitable lull in the evening. He sets the chessboard in front of Edrehasivar, arranging the chess pieces in the correct order, ready for play. "'Tis been a while since I've had the pleasure of a good game of chess, and since I see Mer Aisava is busy?"

It's a transparent excuse, but after a moment's hesitation, Edrehasivar takes him up on it, much to Beshelar's relief.

Edrehasivar is a quick study, despite his initial fumbles; Beshelar learns that his emperor has a keen eye and a cool head for strategy, and he loses his knight, three pawns, and a rook to Edrehasivar. Beshelar still takes the game, checkmating Edrehasivar's king, and for a moment, he freezes - _what is he doing, besting his emperor?_ But before he can apologise, Edrehasivar laughs.

It is not the first time he's heard Edrehasivar laugh - Beshelar remembers, all too well, the hysterical almost-sobs in the Tortoise Room - but this time is different. It's genuinely delighted, and the sound of it sets off something warm in Beshelar's chest, diffusing the ice-cold tension that had been building there because _he'd been a complete fool and bungled etiquette and propriety altogether_.

"Well played," Edrehasivar smiles - actually _smiles_! -  and Beshelar ducks his head, briefly embarrassed.

"We learned from our grandmother on rainy afternoons," Beshelar says, "when we were still a child. She was very good. She would probably have been able to advise you better than we could, Serenity."

Chess had been just about the only thing to keep Beshelar out of trouble, and his grandmother had used to great effect. He still has her chess set. It's not quite so grand as Edrehasivar's, but it brings back fond memories, and Beshelar's engaged Csevet over it more than once in a long-drawn out battle of wills. Csevet is, unsurprisingly, a canny opponent, and Beshelar's conceded more times than he'd like - although who is the decided _better_ of the two is still a matter for dispute, no matter what Csevet says.

"Thou hast more to thee than meets the eye," Edrehasivar says, and there's a spark of mirth in his eyes that makes the corners of Beshelar's mouth draw up in response.

"Thank you, Serenity." He inclines his head, "We are glad to hear that you do not _only_ think of us as brute muscle, though we know we can be very single-minded at times."

Quite faintly, Beshelar wonders if the chess game had been the tipping point and he's gone mad; it's as if his mouth is working without his own permission - he's just made a _joke_ in front of his emperor, of all people, and --

"Never," Edrehasivar chuckles, and gestures towards the board. "Another game? We would like it, very much. An --" he hesitates, "thou were to game regularly with us, we would be most pleased."

Beshelar takes a deep breath. This goes against what he'd learned, when he was a cadet. _Thou canst be whatever thy emperor requires of thee, but never an equal nor a friend_ , had been drilled into his head far more times than he could count. Chess is a distraction; he _should_ be focussed on protecting Edrehasivar, and yet -- _and yet,_ a traitorous voice in the back of his head whispers _, Telimezh and Dazhis are on duty, and thou art not. This is no infringement; it cannot be_. Besides, Edrehasivar looked so _hopeful_. It would take someone else made out of far sterner stuff than Beshelar to refuse, and so he agrees.

Seeing the pleased - and surprised - look cross Edrehasivar's face, though, is more than worth it, and for the first time in a long while, Beshelar feels as if he is welcome in his emperor's presence.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn't last forever, of course. There is the coup attempt, which Beshelar will forever blame himself for not foreseeing, damn Chavar and oh, Dazhis, what a blasted _fool_. Cala is shaken for weeks afterward, and so is Beshelar. Edrehasivar surprises them all, handling it far better than any of them anticipated he would, though he tosses and turns for nights afterwards. Beshelar likes to think the coup was a mixed blessing; ever since then, he's become ever more paranoid, and it is that which ultimately saves Edrehasivar from Dach'osmer Tethimar.

It happens in a blur. Beshelar's body reacts even before his mind is finished processing the danger. Dach'osmer Tethimar's eyes are filled with rage, and he moves with murderous _intent_ , setting all of Beshelar's instincts on edge. He hurls himself in front of Edrehasivar without a second thought, and he does not even feel the burn of the blade in his arm, even though _there is so much blood, everywhere_. A heartbeat later, the air smells like ozone, lightning-sharp and heady, and the traitor is dead at Edrehasivar's feet. _Cala's revethmaz_ , Beshelar thinks, and has to fight back a hysterical giggle for no reason at all.

"Oh, gods, I'm sorry," Beshelar says, dazed, dully aware of Edrehasivar's ragged breaths in his ear. He's crushing Edrehasivar, he knows, but he can't bring himself to move. His body won't respond, and he can't stop trembling, either. The pain has finally set in, and his arm is on fire. Beshelar hopes that the blade wasn't poisoned - that would be a terrible way to go. Then Kiru Athmaza is there, barking out orders, and there are hands pulling him upright.

"Serenity," Beshelar wheezes, "are you all right?"

He'll never forgive himself if he failed -- if he let something happen to Edrehasivar under his watch. Edrehasivar is pale and drawn, and blood spatters the front of his white robes. Beshelar hopes it's his, and not Edrehasivar's. He turns to Telimezh, seeking confirmation, and Telimezh nods, shakily. Beshelar allows himself to slump in relief, though not for long; he won't leave Edrehasivar like this, not when Tethimar's cronies are likely still around.

But Edrehasivar will have none of it; and Kiru Athmaza orders them away, to rest. The last Beshelar sees of his emperor as he is hurried away, is Edrehasivar standing tall, chin lifted and back straight. He wears the bloodstained mantle like armour, and Beshelar half-smiles; Edrehasivar has come a long way from the uncertain boy, all those months ago.

Even then, Beshelar finds that sleep will not come. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Tethimar standing over Edrehasivar's lifeless body, and though he knows it isn't true, he cannot rest easy. Neither can Cala; judging from the restless shifting in the bunk above his.

"Cala," Beshelar whispers into the darkness.

The rustling pauses, and then starts up again, louder than before, and before Beshelar knows it, Cala is scrambling into the same bunk. He's shaking, and cold, and Beshelar allows it when Cala presses close, breaths catching in his throat like sobs. It is hardly appropriate, of course, but that matters not. Not when they've come so close to almsot losing their emperor.

"He's _dead_ ," Cala says, shocked.

"'Tis better this way," Beshelar replies. His arm is sore, and the bunk is too small for the both of them crammed in like this, but he's glad for the comfort, if only because he feels less alone like this.

"Still - " Cala takes a deep breath, shuddering.

"Was it your first kill?" Beshelar's shed more blood than he cares to remember, but he realises, belatedly, that it is probably different for maza.

Silence, then, a quiet "Yes."

"You did well." Beshelar closes his eyes, focussing on the staccato of Cala's heartbeat. "An not for you, Edrehasivar might well be dead."

He does not add _and I too_ , because Beshelar has long since come to terms with the dangers of his duty. He would not be First Nohecharis if he was not prepared for his own death, sooner or later. It is, he knows, the same for Cala.

"Dach'osmer Tethimar deserved it," Beshelar says, fiercely, into the quiet. "He turned traitor. He was the hand behind the late emperor's death, and he would have tried to killed _our_ emperor, too, if he could. Better a dead viper than a live one. But -" he pauses, searches for the right words. "But knowing that will not make it easier." It never is, not with the first kill.

"No," Cala says, softly. "But thank you, Beshelar."

 

* * *

 

 

Winter melts into spring, and spring into summer, and Edrehasivar's stature in the court continues to grow. Edrehasivar the Bridge-builder, they call him now, rather than the epithet Edrehasivar Half-Tongue, and Beshelar is rightfully proud. Edrehasivar, too, has changed; he carries himself with a quiet grace now, and gone is the uncertainty that used to dog him. He has none of his father in him, that is true, but Edrehasivar is in many ways _different_ from what Varenechibel had been - more compassionate, more patient, more generous, and the court is the better for it. His negotiations and policies benefit the poor and the disenfranchised, and Beshelar has gone from frowning at Edrehasivar's ignorance (oh, that feels like so long ago now) to feeling a fierce sense of loyalty, because _this_ is an emperor he is proud to serve. True, Edrehasivar might have been inexperienced and withdrawn when he'd first arrived at court, but now Beshelar sees that there is a quiet _strength_ to him that he'd mistaken for weakness at first - and he respects his emperor all the more for it. 

Edrehasivar, too, has grown better at chess, and Beshelar is in real danger of actually losing - not that he minds. In fact, he's looking forward to the day Edrehasivar checkmates his king. Csevet watches their games with mild amusement and provides snide commentary - mostly to needle Beshelar, drawing chuckles from Edrehasivar now and then. Beshelar still isn't good with his words, but he doesn't have to be. Beshelar takes pride in the fact that Edrehasivar draws reassurance from his presence just as much as he does Cala's. There is an - - understanding of sorts between them, now, that does not need words, for Edrehasivar has taken to teaching Beshelar how to meditate - in return, Beshelar supposes, for the chess lessons. To Kiru Athmaza's everlasting amusement (and his own chagrin), Beshelar is quite incapable of sitting still for extended periods of time, but he _is_ trying, and the long periods of silence between Edrehasivar and him in the tiny chapel in the Alcethmeret do not feel trying, but restful, even if Beshelar is not particularly religious himself.

Beshelar knows what the court would think, if they ever find out; or what his old instructor would say. It wouldn't be too far different from what he would have protested, _before_ he'd properly met Edrehasivar - that it was a breach of the highest order; unprofessional _and_ disrespectful, to boot, because the emperor is not be trifled with. But what Beshelar's come to understand, over the months, is that Edrehasivar - title, crown, mantle and jewels aside - is a person too, and more than that --  someone he's come to count as a friend. Before, he would have given his life for his emperor's out of duty; now he's doubly committed to his oath, out of loyalty and affection. They can never be equals, but that does not mean they cannot be friends, and Beshelar is glad for it. He is content to serve and to guard, and to simply be by his emperor's side. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [ Elemental](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Elemental/) for your prompts - they provided a lot of food for thought, and I had lots of fun thinking up ideas/ writing for them! I hope you like the fic - this is my first go writing for The Goblin Emperor, and I hope I managed to get everyone's characterisation right!


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